Gora and Other Dark Narratives

By Daegal

This book has odds and ends. A dark narrative and poetry collection of odd characters that meet an unimaginable and gruesome end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Castle Carrington Publishing
• Release date: Jan 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781998924813

Book preview

DARK NARRATIVES

Gora

The transcription of this diary is fiction and intended as such. It does not refer to real characters or to actual events. Any likeness to the living or dead is purely coincidental. Maybe.

You should reconsider the flower beds.

I circled the spoon, watching the cream swirl, turning the coffee caramel. I couldn’t drink it black. It wasn’t delightful, and it made my tongue burn.

It’s acidic, Sister, she would preach.

Gora loved to preach. The unnecessary sermon fell on deaf ears.

It’s why I don’t drink that poison, she would continue, giving me the once over.

It was habitual behavior, and I always nodded, letting Gora feel inclined.

Well, I raised my teacup, hovering it above my bottom lip. Mother would have liked us to continue the upkeep, don’t you think?"

Sister blew a puff of air from her bottom lip and nodded, folding her hands over her belly. We started every day in the living room, lounging in our nightgowns, with myself perched on the edge of the couch, and Gora lying across the loveseat. Sister shifted her elbows under her weight, leaned up, wiggled her feet back and forth, and looked at the ceiling.

I am not opposed to cleaning the garden. She craned her neck and gave me an exhausted look. But, she paused to make a point, I have no desire to maintain the upkeep.

I sipped my coffee and then cleared my throat. Gora knew my tactics. There would be a sob followed by some language of understanding and then my resounding, But...

She hated the subtle conflict I would drum up when concerning our parents. There was no conflict. They were dead. They left two children with significant traumas to fend for themselves. It was selfish.

We were born in 1902—identical twins. The monozygotic, not fraternal or the dizygotic, kind. Father said we were exceptional and spent hours reading about us in his private library. We were never allowed in there, ever. When he learned something new, he would barge into the living room, interrupting all conversations to announce his findings. I recall one instance where I thought my father had lost his sensibility.

Galton he raised his finger, pausing for dramatic effect.

When we stared at him, oblivious, he dropped his hand, slumped his shoulders, and furrowed his bushy eyebrows.

Galton, he repeated. Francis Galton?

We never really knew who this man was, but we pretended to.

He studied eugenics, Father exclaimed. And he’s British.

That was the most critical part of the man’s credibility—he was British. We shook our heads, feigning interest.

Mother praised, That’s good, dear, as she walked away.

Father scoffed, mumbling as he returned to his library, slamming the door behind him.

I looked out the big bay window to the yard and took a deep breath. Turning to Gora, I straightened my posture to look more assertive.

What if I tend to the trillium and the blue flag and you to Father’s cherry blossoms?

Gora sat up and straightened her nightgown. There was the, ‘But…’"

I could tell she didn’t want to tend to any of it.

Fine, she sulked and lowered herself back down. She draped her forearm over her eyes and let out a moan.

Stop being so dramatic, Sister. I laughed, picking up the saucer and walking into the kitchen, leaving Gora to pout.

It was June and already stifling outside. It was our birthday on the 5th, and neither of us has mentioned a word of it so far. Ever since our parents had passed, holidays seemed unimportant and, more so, birthdays. What was there to celebrate? Sure, we had no worries about monetary struggles, but the most important people who gave us life were gone. They left us with nothing but heartache, mental illness, and a beautiful prison by which to remember them. That was hardly a good reason to blow out candles.

I placed my cup and saucer in the sink and stood in the vast empty kitchen. I could smell the ghost of my mother. Was it Mother? The loaves of bread and pastries that Mother slaved over for Father hung at the end of my flared nostrils. So, yes, it was Mother. Sometimes, when I walked the halls at night, I could hear Mother singing from empty rooms at the far ends of the mansion, always wherever I was not.

Downstairs, the smell of Father’s pipe leaked from behind the library door. I did not dare to open it. Not wanting to see his rotten corpse sitting upright in the leather chair, smoke curling his gaunt face.

Galton! he would squawk, pulling the pipe from his twisted mouth, the teeth decayed and spare. This place was our tomb.

My sister and I suffered from agoraphobia. Father had lectured us on the subject, and, for a short period, we paid attention. He said it was related to a panic disorder. Still, neither my sister nor I ever felt any panic unless you asked us to leave the boundaries of our property. The condition, discovered by Karl Friedrich Otto Westphal, was not easily dissuaded. Father took him as a serious and notable doctor of psychiatry, even though he was German and not British.

My sister and I never understood the difference between the two, so we focused on the information rather than the heritage of the scholar. There were moments when we dared each other to cross the property’s boundaries. If memory serves correctly, we both had stepped one toe over the line. The fear climbed us like old vines, threatening to pull us under the earth. We would squeal and run back into the protection of our home. The cool brick walls sealed us from the outside world, its cold grip hugging our forms. Nothing could be touched within its frigid shell. Not in a harmful way, at least.

Father would scold us as we ran through the living room, screeching and bellowing as if creatures nipped at our heels. They did. I swore to my sister, in whom I confided on my accounts of these matters, and she, in turn, spun equal tales of the heel biters. I assure you, they were real, but Sister thought we conjured all of them from fear. Apparitions within our imaginations. Purely fun. Fantasy to excite the mundane. The fable had natural teeth, and I have the marks to prove it.

I would bear another scar in the summer of our twenty-third birthday. My sister would call me a spinster of lies and rush to the yard’s border to prove her discord. Everything changed that afternoon when she returned from the yard’s edge. It was not the last time I would hear her voice, however. Several days would pass before she would sing to me.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a moment and share what happened to my sister. It is all written down. The day she decided to leave us. I write in this diary from the depths of our home. In the shadows, neither my sister, mother, nor father can know my thoughts, but they hear me.

Oh, by the way, my name is Phoebe.

June 5th Diary Entry

It was inconceivable to think that Gora would do what she did. That morning, we took tea in the living room and pretended to have forgotten what day it was. I had made Gora a modest gift—a puffed pastry topped with fresh honey. I got stung a few times and considered that an acceptable sacrifice to please my sister on the day we agreed not to celebrate. I had no idea if she had planned something on my behalf, but from the smile on her face, I assumed it was as equally deliberate. It was beautiful outside. The sun stabbed through the trees and illuminated the green carpet of the yard.

I wanted to lay in it, and my skin prickled with excitement. Gora stuck her hand straight up and made circles with her pointer finger. Why is she so weird sometimes? I remember sighing just then. Not because I felt annoyed or bored. It was as if I knew what came next—a clairvoyance of heavy sorrow that my sister exuded. I don’t know. These things are best left to the imagination, or so